


the monkey, the middle

by tigerbox



Category: PRISTIN (Band), SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 01:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerbox/pseuds/tigerbox
Summary: jun reflects on how he's in the middle of the8 and pinky's break-up. it's his own fault really, for being such a peacekeeper.





	the monkey, the middle

His face mask keeps sliding off his chin from the repetitive motion of bending down.

Black silk, fan-made one as a present.

Not that it matters, at one AM in a basement parking lot, no one around to recognize him.

But still - it’s the principle of the situation.

A break-up.

And not even his.

It’s his personality that gets him into these binding situations.

Reliable, dependable, quiet, but needed. Just there.

Who else is going to mediate the situation and be able to decipher the insults drawn upon each other in taunting Chinese?

Jun. That’s who.

He tries to fix the black mask (adorned with a loving depiction of a pirate skull on it) while simultaneously trying to pick up another box from the floor into the back of the van when he feels a muscle pop, and good lord does it hurt.

“Damn it,” he says, dropping the box with a sore attempt to pinpoint the exact area his back hurts, but it hurts all over.

The box haunts him from below, label flipped over reading ‘ _books_ ,’ in intricate stylized traditional Mandarin.

He laughs for a bit, fighting through the pain because he can’t even remember the last time he saw Minghao open up a freaking book. As if he were some literature warrior.

“Shit,” Pinky comes running down the basement stairs, heels clacking on the cement, throwing down her own box. “What happened?”

“I don’t understand how you guys collectively shared so many things, that’s what.”

Two dorms, hours of idol-dom, cross country and international promotions, it makes sense to accumulate such a large amount of shared things, things to remember each other by, but who cares.

Jun doesn’t really like to think about that part.

“Sorry,” Pinky mumbles, clacking those loud heels over to the trunk and to Jun, placing a firm hand on Jun’s back.

It’s not even the place where the pain is extenuating from, but it helps when she starts rubbing it in a large circular motion, gnawing and ebbing at the dimples of his back.

“These are the last of them,” she mumbles again, sounding ashamed and fairly distant.

Jun is sure his eyes are closed and he gets a little nauseous with the motions, and Pinky is suddenly tugging open the back of his sweatshirt, putting her hand in there like any Chinese mother would to nag their injured son, and Jun lurches back, the momentarily hot thoughts he’d been having phasing into thoughts of his mother doting on him all the times he was sick before he turned the age of ten.

“What?” she says. He turns to look at Pinky with a cross look, his mouth shriveled up.

She’s definitely not his mother.

“I’ll be fine,” he ignores the shooting pain stemming from his back and shoves the last two boxes into the trunk of her stolen Pristin van, eyeing the parking lot for any lurking passerby's.

There’s no one there, not even that unmistakable sound of a wide lens shutter, and he guesses he should feel relieved, but he’s not really.

But whatever, this, her, the boxes. They aren’t his problem.

Jun starts to think about what he’s going to eat when he goes back upstairs, but knows he’s going to be met with a curious Minghao, who’s going to flood him with a billion questions the second he steps into the dorm lobby.

“What’d she say about me? How’d she look, did she look sad, do you think she wants to get back together because fuck her, but maybe we should…”

Noodles, he’s going to have noodles, because his mother told him lovingly once, noodles are good to eat when you’re sore after rehearsals.

It’s the part where Pinky is supposed to say thanks, yet again, but she’s pouting, hindering his chances of getting away, and Jun imagines this is exactly the situation he’s going to have put up with again five minutes later.

Moon Junhui, master of monkeying in the middle.

“Junhui,” she whines, drawling his name out in that dialect of hers that sounded so different than his own natural one. And then she starts whining in Chinese, which kind of throws Jun for a loop, because he is just so accustomed to only hearing Pinky speak Korean these days, something she’d been praised endlessly about, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Break-ups suck.”

Jun doesn’t respond. He genuinely can’t think of anything to say. He looks down. Pinky is still pouting, looking at him square in the eye, waiting for a reaction.

He reaches down, slowly, because his back still hurts, drawing his two arms around her, embracing her in a stiff hug.

She delves into it immediately, throwing her arms over his long neck, her hair swatting carelessly on the extension of his covered arms, over his revealed jaw.

But yes, it’s a hug and he lets his hands tighten around her some more, because it’s nice.

Her hair smells like coconut shampoo.

Minghao uses coconut shampoo, he remembers vaguely.

Thirteen bottles lined up in the shower. The seventh one in the sill under the window.

Minghao’s ex-girlfriend.

“Jieqeong,” Jun tries to say, in a gesture of breaking apart, but his hands are around her as tight as ever. Her chest is resting on his, their belt buckles are touching, and his tall knees are knocking into her thighs, and it’s just the perfect hug.

“I don’t think I ever loved him,” she’s muttering, somewhere around his shoulder line and chest.

 

 

 

Jun remembers it all; in fragments of three.

 

 

 

 

 _One_ \- meeting her for the first time.

Practice room, sticky floors, sweaty adolescent boys meeting primped and pretty girls. Her long hair, denim skirt, twiggy legs, eager bowing, greeting them all.

Her perfect un-stilted Korean, already excelling his.

 

 

 _Two_ \- post showcase, congratulatory party back at headquarters, feeling very much like a high school celebration party. Seungcheol sneaking in the beers, people swaddling in to cover Chan and Siyeon’s eyes from the hormones in the room making bad choices.

Her words, her hand slapped to her own head in excitement for them, for him even, wondrous, “You get to debut, you’re going to debut, oh, my, god, no wait the showcase finished so that means you already debuted!” her tumbling over him with an open can of beer, a sloppy arm around his shoulder, that irresistible wide grin, a kiss on the cheek turning into an accidental kiss on the lips, with a cute “Oops.”

His first kiss in Korea.

 

 _Three_ \- post rehearsal, eyes in a glaze. Something with the choreography taking him forever to master, even though Soonyoung, Chan and Minghao had nailed it hours ago.

Perspiration sticking to his forehead, his shirt drenched in his own bodily fluids, looking at his reflection in the mirror, repeating the words over and over again, “You’re a fuck up,” despite his intentions not to.

“Oh, hey, you’re still here? Pinky’s been looking for you, you know…” Nayoung’s coy albeit ambiguous statement in the passing hallway, “She’s been having a tough time with our debut around the corner, I think she could really use your help cheering up…” that friendly pat on the back, a leader’s reassurance, a best friend’s approval.

He’s down the hall, no time to even fix his hair that’s pushed up in a manic matter. Up the stairs, into the recording booth, the back of Minghao’s familiar head. Pinky tilting her head back, laughing with genuine glory. Her worries gone. Her quest to find Jun in the practice room, and unload her worries, a nonexistent memory. Jun doesn’t blame Minghao though. Minghao could be funny, barely even trying.

Jun always has to try.

 

 

 

“I always thought it’d be you guys who’d end up together. I don’t know why.” Wonwoo scrunches his nose up, tickled almost, the day Minghao returns to the dorm with a bright yellow couple bracelet latched onto his skinny wrist.

“Yellow’s the color of friendship, isn’t it? At least in America…” Joshua comes around too, pressing his hands on Jun’s shoulders in a warm gesture.

“Honestly, she’s out of his league,” Seungkwan blurts what they’re all thinking.

It’s true though. The eleven stares and weird amounts of concern towards Jun are kind of a collective thought, and it makes him feel weird that it’s out in the open.

It’s not like Jun has a crush on Pinky, quite the opposite really. But it’s also just that they make more sense on paper. As if they were going to eventually end up together. Not a trip, but the destination.

And everyone knows it.

Still. Minghao flashes his bracelet around, teeth shimmering. Everyone coos over how adorable he’s acting. Even Jun pitches in, pinching Minghao’s cheeks. It’s hard not to, when he’s just so happy. First love, so to speak.

 

 

 

 

 

Pinky’s pressing into Jun with more force now. Sure she’s sad, but her bare legs rub into his crotch so tenderly, it’s making him incredibly horny. The dim garage lights, coconut smells, hair nuzzling into his neck isn’t helping.

“Junhui, you suck at comforting. Can’t you hug me like you mean it?” she’s saying, or crying, he can’t really tell, but he gives in, ignoring the sweltering pool of heat he’s feeling, leaning down into the hug, bringing his neck down past hers, finding its spot gently on the side of her head. He lets his hands go down, far from the manner hands, and more confidently around her waist, the soft feel of her skin from where her shirt rides up turning him on slightly. Her skin, supple, taut, fingers grazing just a smidgen underneath her stomach.

The worst platonic hug ever.

“Better,” she sighs into him, and Jun feels himself hardening.

“Better,” she exhales again, crawling closer if possible, one of her hands pulling itself into that similar circular motion from before and then he is the one sighing. The back pain eradicates itself, he thinks. That’s right. Back pain. Boxes. Break-up. Minghao.

He’s the one pulling apart, tugging his sweatshirt down. Pinky’s looking at him, those enchanting eyes, baffled like a lost puppy, confused by the broken hug.

“I wish you well,” Jun says, pulling the trunk door down. He’s always been so bad at goodbyes. Never good with any sort of resolution.

“Yeah,” she says, clearly not ready for whatever happened to be over. “Tell him I’m sorry, would you?”

Him. Right. Minghao.

Minghao’s ex-girlfriend.

She’s standing there right before him, looking as vulnerable as ever. Jun thinks about it, thinks about her. Kyulkyung, Pinky, Jieqeong, adored by many, strong, fiercely protective, known as a beagle, multi-talented. Not many, if any people, get to see her like this. Momentarily broken, looking for a way to fix the pieces.

Her chin is quivering, but she’s refusing to cry. Her shirt is thin, worn, probably Minghao’s. Jun can see straight through it, see the lace of her bralette, the curves of her breast, the dip of her stomach. She’s biting her lips, still pouting, eyes fluttering at him, desperate for another bit of contact, comfort, reassurance.

He’s not it, he tells himself. The best at convincing his own self lies.

“Did you ever think,” she starts, “What’d it have been like, if it had been you and I who ended up together instead?”

Her voice cracks when she says it; a yearning of hope. Jun feels his chest rise and fall, hands shoved into his pockets, fingers tumbling against each other in nerves. She looks beautiful, like this, so open and free. He wants to remember it forever. A pang hits his backside.

The box of hell.

Books, he remembers. He tries to think of how long Minghao has been waiting for him to return upstairs, probably pacing around the front, rearranging all the shoes Mingyu has meticulously already arranged neatly.

Jun, the reliable man.

He takes his sweatshirt off, pulling it over Pinky’s head, her shoulders, and down her chest, making sure she’s covered warmly. She’d been shivering, he realizes belatedly. He gives her a little stroke on the cheek. Soft, misguided, feeling like everything sweet. And not his. He makes his way back up the stairs, ignoring the sound of her heels clanking behind.

“Never. Not even once,” he answers back.

He thinks he hears the sound of a camera shuttering away as he trollops upstairs. He probably dreams it though, because Jun dreams of a lot of things.

**Author's Note:**

> been trying to write a jisol fic for ages but this is what ends up happening instead lol chinaline luv triangle sorta


End file.
